Through John Rider's Eyes
by Theories Of Chaos
Summary: This is my version of what might have gone on in the days leading up to John Rider's death.


NOTE: I do not own any of the characters or story or anything at all from the Alex Rider stories. That ALL belongs to Anthony Horowitz, this is just a fictional story I made up about how things might have gone right before John Rider died.

John Rider emerged from the car sullen-faced and grim. An MI6 agent led him to the start of the bridge.

"Just walk to the end of the bridge," the agent instructed him. John simply nodded.

He began his at first slow-paced trek down the Albert Bridge. The nervous and frightened eighteen-year-old son of civil servant, George Adair, was walking towards him. John could almost smell the boy's obvious fear of everything around him. He knew the thoughts that were going through the boy's head just then: _Am I going to die? Will they decide not to give me back after all? Is the man coming towards me on the bridge going to kill me?_

John straightened his padded jacket as he walked. It was raining and his clothes were now sticking to him and becoming rather uncomfortable. The bridge was quite slippery. He avoided several puddles as he reached the middle of the bridge.

Just as George was about to pass him by, John grabbed the boy's arm and spun him round. He then said calmly, "There's going to be a shooting. You have to move fast. Don't look around. Just run as fast as you can. You'll be safe."

George looked surprised. John jerked his head towards the MI6 agents, a gesture that told him to get moving. Nodding quickly George took off in the other direction.

Just as he did so, two simple words spoken by Mrs. Jones were uttered into her radio.

"Kill him."

The shooting began. A spray of bullets exploded from the guns of the MI6 agents. George made a mad zigzagging dash down the bridge. The Scorpia men at the other end saw the setup and fired at the boy, but his clever running pattern saved his life. He ducked into an MI6 car and was off.

Just then, a bullet was fired at John. Blood rapidly soaked his jacket and shirt. He fell back, his head seemingly bouncing against the ground. His eyes closed. Then he lay still.

The Scorpia men took this opportunity to leave. As much as they wanted John back they knew that there would be no help for him and proceeding further would simply get themselves killed. They swung into their cars and sped off.

The Scorpia men were gone.

John Rider opened his eyes.

He looked around for a moment; just to be sure they were gone. They were. But Scorpia still had the area under surveillance, so he continued to lay still. He let his fellow MI6 agents place a tarp over his body and place him in the back of a car.

As soon as they were moving, John pushed the tarp off of him. He winced in pain. Despite his wearing a bulletproof vest, the impact had hit hard and to make the death look real he'd had to let his head hit the concrete full force. He'd have a massive headache, but he'd be all right.

"You did well John," Mrs. Jones commented.

"I've faked death before, but never like this," John murmured in reply. "And I think, after saving the world at least half a dozen times and double crossing the most power crime organization in the world, I've earned myself a _long_ paid vacation."

Mrs. Jones smiled briefly. "I'm sure even Alan will agree with that."

"We're going to the South of France," John continued, "Helen, Alex and I. Can you believe that Alex is already two months old? He looks just like me." The man's face almost glowed as he spoke of his newborn.

They reached the 'Royal and General Bank' on Liverpool Street not long after. Alan Blunt, who granted John's well-earned wish of a vacation, debriefed him in his office. As soon as the whole matter was done John left immediately for home.

When he walked through the door his wife Helen was there to embrace him. She kissed him and said, "Did that Blunt man finally give you a vacation?"

John smiled. "He did."

Helen was relieved. "Good, because the tickets are non-refundable."

"When do we leave?"

"In two days."

"Did you put Alex to bed yet?"

"I was waiting for you to come home. I thought you might like to."

John nodded. "After having a constant threat of death for the past while seeing my son's smiling face is relaxing."

John entered the nursery, whose walls were painted blue with baby ducklings parading around it on laminate wallpaper. Next to the window was Alex's crib. Gently the trained assassin/MI6 agent placed the little boy down into the warm pile of pillows covering the crib. Arranging the numerous stuffed animals and blankets around him, John noticed that Alex was beginning to squirm and cry.

He picked up the infant again and sang a lullaby softly to him. Unbeknownst to the seemingly tough man, his wife was watching from the doorway and smiling brightly.

Finally little Alex was soothed to sleep. John placed him back into his crib and backed out of the room quietly. By then, Helen was in the hallway leaning against the wall.

"So you _do _have a sensitive side," she teased.

"Only for now," John replied. "I plan to raise that boy to be every bit as tough as I am."

"Well I hope that you teach him to use his powers for good," she giggled in a deep voice.

"That's his choice," John teased back.

The next day passed by quickly. Helen packed their luggage for the South of France while John stopped by Graham Adair's to speak with him about the goings on at Albert Bridge the previous day. The man graciously thanked John for saving his son's life.

When John got back home he was greeted by something rather unpleasant.

"Alex looked a bit odd this morning, so I took him to the doctor while you were gone," Helen said. "He's got an ear infection."

"We can't take him to France with us if he's sick," John said sadly. "We'll have to reschedule."

"But the tickets are non-refundable," Helen reminded him.

"Then I guess we'll have to leave him with Ian."

"He's on vacation too?"

"Unless Alan changed his mind, yes."

"I'll give him a call and we can drop him off tomorrow morning on our way to the airport."

Helen called Ian a little later, who said that he'd be glad to watch his only nephew.

The next morning, they packed Alex's things into a bag to give to Ian and drove out to his house. The other MI6 agent received the sick infant happily.

"Have a good trip," Ian said. "And make sure to bring us souvenirs."

"If they aren't too expensive, I'll see about getting you two a couple of key chains or something," John joked. They all laughed.

Helen hugged and kissed little Alex goodbye and got into the car. For some reason John seemed to linger a little longer. He kissed his son's forehead.

"I love you," he said quietly to him. He got in the car.

Little did either of them know, that would be the last time they ever saw Ian or Alex Rider ever again.

The airport security, as usual, took seemingly forever to get through. But finally they got to the gate.

A hurried businessman was rushing up to the line. In procession to the desk nearest it, he stumbled over John's backpack, which he had rested on the ground for a moment.

"I'm so sorry," he said nervously, collecting his fallen briefcase. "Is this gate I-7?"

"This is I-5," John replied, helping the man collect what he'd dropped.

"Oh darn I'm going to miss my flight!" he exclaimed. "Thank you and sorry again." He darted off into the crowd.

Without a second thought to the businessman the couple handed over their boarding passes and went aboard the plane. They were in first class.

John stretched his legs for a moment before lifting his and Helen's suitcases into the overhead compartment. His smaller backpack he left out and under the seat.

It was about thirty minutes into the flight when Helen seemed almost annoyed by something.

"What's the matter?" John asked.

"Your backpack," Helen said frowning. "For the past half-hour it seems to have been ticking."

"Ticking?" John questioned.

"Yes."

John lifted up the small black backpack and held it to his ear. Yes, there was a faint ticking sound coming from it. He unzipped the bag.

John's heart almost stopped.

There, staring him menacingly in the face were neon green digital numbers, from a screen atop a small electrical box. John already knew what it was.

A bomb. And it seven second to go. He wanted to rip open the back cover over it and try and disable the thing, but he knew that by the looks of things it was all radio-controlled and there wasn't any disarming able to be done.

John squeezed Helen's hand tightly and kissed her.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Did your watch break or something?"

John held her hand tighter and felt a slight pain in his lip as he bit down hard.

Then he felt nothing.

Ian Rider was watching the news that evening and found that there had been a plane crash. Some sort of bomb had gone off and half of the plane exploded. The rest hit the ground and was engulfed in a fiery cloud.

It was flight I-5 out of England. They began listing the names of the victims on the screen. There they were, towards the end: Helen Rider and John Rider.

Ian looked back to his guest room where young Alex slept. Sadly he knew that the boy was now an orphan.

Ian felt a sharp pain inside of him. He tried to find the name for the emotion that caused him to cry in sorrow for the next few minutes. Oh yeah. Sadness. The sadness he felt would be nothing compared to the sadness Alex would feel when the day came that he asked about his parents.


End file.
